


Blind Faith, Heartache / Mind Games, Mistakes

by m_madeleine



Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: Bloodplay, M/M, Nosebleed, Painplay, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, not hatesex (but also not not hatesex)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-08-20 04:08:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20221543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_madeleine/pseuds/m_madeleine
Summary: A fraught night.





	1. Pain play

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 and 2 fill the squares for non-impact pain play and bloodplay for my Season of Kink bingo card, respectively, but there's a bit of either in both. 
> 
> Title from The Arctic Monkeys' _I Want It All._

From his bed, Ice watches Slider sitting bent over the shaving mirror. Another wad of bloody tissues hits the rapidly filling trash can with a rustle.

They had the evening off and were going to spend it out. That particular bar had been new to them, though promising, but things had somehow turned sour soon. Some random guys talking shit about him, nothing incentive enough for Ice to get his hands dirty, but Slider had been loyal as always. Three against one hadn’t been so bad a chance. Not a winning one, of course.

After, Slider had wiped his bloody nose and scowled at him. Ice had finished his drink.

Watching gets old quickly. Ice wanders over to dig his fingers between Slider’s shoulder blades. He can’t stand tall guys who slouch. Slider isn’t usually one of those. Slider hisses at the sharp pain, looks up, still scowling at him in the mirror.

Ice shrugs.

“Didn’t tell you to do anything, baby.”

“Asshole,” Slider spits back. Still leans into Ice’s hands with an involuntary sigh, because of course, like he would ever stay mad. Ice slips his hand down the front of Slider’s shirt – and Slider abruptly turns to bury his face in Ice’s chest, hands on his waist. His breath puffs warm even through the fabric of Ice’s shirt.

Ice scrapes his fingernails down the bristly back of Slider’s head. One of the downsides to fucking military guys; he likes having some hair to grip.

“You’re getting blood on my shirt,” he says, deceptively mildly, and digs his nails into the edge of Slider’s ear. On his waist, Slider’s hands tremble.

Later, Ice keeps one hand on Slider’s throat as he fucks him, his other hand digging into Slider’s hip in the way that always makes him moan. He’d pushed into him with minimum prep already, which Slider should be used to by now, but still. “Oh, fuck,” Slider hisses through gritted teeth, “_fuck_,” sheets in a deadly grip, as if Ice told him not to touch.

Slider’s swearing without pause, his face twisted painfully, but he’s moaning, too. He loves this, Ice knows, he likes for it to hurt. And not for the first time, Ice thinks about a lot of other things he could do, draw more blood, leave darker marks. He’s not sure Slider will be up for some of them, but then, a couple of things, he might do out of obedience alone. Ice would have to lie if he didn’t like the thought.

Slider blinks up at him, meeting his gaze, eyes damp, glazed over, and Ice admires the wreck he’s made of him. Leans down to bite his collarbone, a place he’d scratched him earlier, bruises already forming, which earns him a desperate sob followed by wet streaks hitting his stomach.

Nothing new, but it gets him triumphant every time. He pulls out for a moment, just to push Slider over on his stomach, starts fucking into him again towards his own completion, leaning down, biting more marks into the back of Slider’s neck. 


	2. Bloodplay

**** Slider hates how he can never stay angry when Ice is touching him. Oh, he always remembers the whys and hows of it. But now, as so often, he’s boneless and most of his feelings are far away, as if they’re somebody else’s, leaving him with the physical sensations only. The bruises sting, his ass is sore, but he’s used to that by now.  


They ended up on Slider’s bed, which is good, because Ice would’ve kicked him out of his own a long time ago. Sometime during, his nose started bleeding again. Good Ice was wearing an old shirt, too.  


“Guess we can forget about that bar now,” he mutters into Ice’s chest. It comes out a lot less biting than he meant it. He’s tired.

Above him, Ice snorts.

“You, definitely.”

Dully, Slider thinks he should probably hate Ice a lot more. Thinks about how much he’s already giving and how much more he still could, and how Ice would just keep laughing at him and take and take. Too bad he can’t conjure up more anger at that**.**

Ice is still running his nails over the back of his head and it’s almost starting to hurt, but Slider doesn’t hate the shivers it sends down his spine. He likes to imagine Ice cares. Still, he resists the urge to curl himself deeper into the warm body next to him; he keeps revealing too much as is. Ice’s heartbeat reverberates in his ear, as always, perfectly steady.

Ice tilts his chin up. Runs his fingers under Slider’s nose, like he’s wiping the blood away. It would come off a lot more caringly if he didn’t go on to spread it all the way up to his cheekbone. Then Ice hauls him up and slips his tongue in his mouth.

Slider’s been tasting nothing but blood for a while, but the way Ice licks into him shows  _ he’s  _ not tired of it yet at least, relishing it, in fact, and yeah, of course he does. Pulling up his nose makes everything hurt more, so he just lets it bleed. He doesn’t love the sharp metallic taste, but Ice’s fingers are pressing insistently into his neck and the way he’s plundering his mouth almost makes him want to go for another round. His body is protesting any thought in that direction, though. And thankfully even the Iceman is too human for that much sex at once.

Slider shoves Ice away when he starts getting light-headed. Settling back down against the pillow, he tips his head back to try and finally still it.  


Ice laughs. The blood smeared around his mouth makes him look feral, contrasting with his cool eyes.

“Let me keep some for myself, will you,” Slider mutters. Picks his own already ruined shirt up to clean off his face, his chest. The blood blooms on the white fabric like it does on the sheets, a fresh, stark red.

Ice snorts quietly, but lets him be, this time. And lies down next to him, one leg thrown over Slider’s leg, one possessive, bloodstained hand resting in the crease of his thigh.


End file.
